


Club 92

by holymalfoys



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Bottom Draco Malfoy, Hate Sex, Hatred, Just Dudes Being Dudes, M/M, Nightclub, Top Harry Potter, just guys being gay, just guys being guys, showme your dick jerry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 13:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19357624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holymalfoys/pseuds/holymalfoys
Summary: 'Harry’s torn between staying and running, between facing what he’s avoided for years and being the coward he is, the coward who lurks in shadows and stews in guilt and confusion and hurt and being completely, utterly, devastatingly alone and misunderstood, when Malfoy steps forward.And the only thing Harry thinks, unconsciously, perhaps, is, “finally”.'Harry's emotionally stunted. Draco's afraid of commitment. "Club 92" is a gay muggle club. Guess what happens.





	Club 92

_Muggle clubs truly are a God send,_ Draco thinks as he knocks back a shot of something bitter and explosive.

Especially Muggle _gay_ clubs. They’re quickly becoming some of Draco’s favourite places in the world, and he’s doing nothing to change that.

He laughs, light and giddy. Life’s a bit fucked up these days, so why _wouldn’t_ he spend his nights getting shagged blind by strangers- by Muggles- and running away like Cinderella in the morning? Why _wouldn’t_ he drown his anger and sorrows and hurt in shots of strange alcohols he doesn’t know the names of but they make it all go away so it doesn’t really matter?

Besides, it’s not like he’s the only one a bit fucked up. Pansy has never once refused an invite, has never once said _this is wrong, Draco,_ so, really, how terrible could it really be?

Draco sees her out of the corner of his eye. She has her hand up someone’s skirt and is whispering in their ear, and he knows she won’t be coming back to their dingy flat tonight.

He frowns at the thought of said flat. It’s tiny, and cramped, and damp and mouldy, but it’s theirs. It’s the best they could have afforded in their circumstances, and it’s their home now, so neither of them ever went searching for a permanent replacement.

Nothing is really permanent in their lives, these days. Commitment has become Draco’s boggart, a startling, ugly monster that rears its infinite head and whispers _forever_ through teeth that gleam like the stars in the night sky that Draco hasn’t looked at since he was a teenager who was burning from the inside out. He’s not sure exactly when eternity became such a dirty word, but it makes him entirely too uncomfortable so he never stops to think about it.

Unease is starting to claw at his throat and collar, his hands are growing clammy and his mind is one second off running away and taking his body with it. No, tonight is not about forever.

Tonight is about speed, about something quick and easy that leaves him burning- but only on the outside-, about something that reduces him to what he is, a quivering mass lying underneath tangled sheets. That’s exactly what he wants, what he deserves, and it’s what he’s going to get.

Draco’s dressed to pull tonight. He’s wearing his leather trousers, the ones that are just a little bit too tight around his bum, and a white silk button-up that’s only buttoned halfway. His hair is braided to perfection, his eyeliner is sharp as fuck. His lips and cheeks are rosy, his eyes are wide, and he knows he looks like he eats, sleeps and breathes chaos. He looks like he can ruin someone’s life, and that’s exactly what people want- they want the illusion of somebody who can shatter their hearts in a moment, can discard them whenever they get boring, but they don’t actually want to be hurt. Draco finds it all very confusing, but he plays into that fantasy nevertheless.

It’s with a start that he realises there’s an intense gaze trained on him, and so he tips back another shot, turns, and, without looking, pushes through the crowd, towards the inevitability of a stranger in his bed and a dagger speared through his heart.

~

The years after the war haven’t been kind to Harry.

His mind has gradually developed into a minefield that usually lights up after dark, his vocabulary has been reduced to grunts and similar mutters, and all traces of any emotions have been completely stripped back, completely removed- he feels like he was chucked in water after the war and has not yet resurfaced.

His money is practically all gone, his flat is run down as fuck, his alcohol stash has depleted majorly, and his patience and tolerance have completely evaporated. Just last week he shouted at a child who looked at him for too long, and he didn’t even feel guilty. Only tired.

Only ever tired. And restless. As though he’s waiting for something massive, something that might just break the dam and burst down all of his walls in one hell of a cacophony, but it’s never going to arrive.

He is, without an utter hint of doubt in anyone’s mind, an absolute burnout- he’s just another somebody who faded into a nobody.

Harry doesn’t know when he stopped being so caring, when he became so removed from reality that it constantly feels warped in his head, as though it doesn’t actually exist and he only survives in his own mind.

He also doesn’t know why he’s here, in some shithole Muggle _gay_ club (called "Club 92", he thinks), nor does he know why he’s keeping an eye out for someone to take home.

Harry hates sex. He finds it boring, just two beings moving together. No passion- never any passion. He doesn’t know how to do passion, but he doesn’t want to do it anyway. He only ever brings somebody home because he’s bored, because he feels he has to, or because he’s likened himself to being too much like a robot or something and needs to remind himself he has a penis and can, in fact, put it in someone else.

Nevertheless, he’s here. He’s here for something quick and easy and sleazy, and he’s going to get it.

He’s not sure what possessed him to wear a black t-shirt and black denims. He doesn’t mind, though- his body is the only thing that came out of the war relatively decent.

For the past few years he’s been hitting the gym regularly, spending hours pounding his anger out using the various equipment in it. As a result, he’s in good shape and doesn’t wince when he looks in the mirror, and that’s all he can hope for, really.

The club is packed full of people wearing next to nothing who are clattered in makeup and glitter. They all look so happy, and it makes Harry sick. He can’t remember the last time he felt genuine happiness.

He’s just about to call it quits when his eyes fall on someone who seems too familiar to be here. A glint of white blond hair, pulled back into a tight plait, is enough to place something hot and heavy stewing in his gut. He’s angry, but it isn’t his usual anger: he’s _furious_.

He knows exactly who that is, even before he turns to face him. The image of that thin, lithe body has been buried in Harry’s subconscious for years, except he’s never realised until this exact moment in time.

Malfoy throws back a shot, then turns towards him, and still Harry stares.

~

When Draco was a young boy, he always dreamed of being a prince.

He prepared himself for a life of grooming, a life of parties and A-list celebrities and all the land and happiness in the world. He saw a beautiful princess draped on his arm, lips red and glossy, hair long and golden. He imagined all their children- there would be five, three boys and two girls- and the house they would all reside in beside the sea, because Draco loved the sea.

Over time, that fantasy changed. Small things at first, like the princess having pink, thin lips and dark hair and green eyes, and maybe less children and maybe less parties. But then the princess became a boy, with cropped hair and emerald eyes that sparkled behind round glasses and a strange scar on his forehead, and children faded from the equation altogether.

The one thing that never changed was the house beside the sea. That was the one constant, the one driving factor that pushed Draco through the whirlwind of heartbreak that charged its way straight through him. That promise of forever, that’s what brought him up tall and stark time and time again.

He never, ever addressed the fact that the prince that appeared in his dreams bore an identicality to Harry Potter.

Still, life went on, and Draco held that dream in his mind the whole time… at least until Voldemort and Bellatrix moved in, and Occlumency became too much of a threat.

It was around the time of Voldemort’s arrival when Draco’s fear of forever was born. The idea of something residing so deeply in and beside him for all eternity suddenly terrified him, because Voldemort suddenly started throwing around words like infinite and endlessly and Draco had no choice but to start associating forever with him.

And so the dream died. Forever was never going to happen, and Draco accepted that.

When the war took everything he had and pressed him into a tiny box, along with the disgraced children of disgraced families, he had no choice but to embrace the muggle way of life. He and Pansy vowed to never commit to anything ever, ever again, and found the shittiest flat in the whole world. From there they found the shittiest jobs- the only jobs they could get- and life went on.

And here Draco is, stuck in a warped, timeless world where nothing ever makes sense anymore, where the only place he ever really feels alive is in shitty clubs where he can seek some sort of validation from strangers. A validation he’s never even thought about before, but now clings onto with all he has. A fleeting, tiny emotion that doesn’t mean anything but yet keeps him going, keeps him floating in the murky depths of his life.

It’s addictive. He thinks he can be classified as an addict, he’s so beyond fucked up, but it seems like everyone else is in the same situation so it doesn’t make sense to go after some proper therapy, which he certainly doesn’t deserve. A dick up the arse does him all the good in the world, and so he focuses on that.

He’s never forgotten the wizarding world, though. Never forgotten the man who saved him and simultaneously threw him away, perhaps unknowingly. Never forgotten the prince in a dream that died so long ago.

He should be shocked when he sees those emerald eyes burning through him, filled with something Draco’s never associated with Potter before, but he isn’t. He feels like this is huge, like the universe has ran out of space and time and he’s just watching it all happen. He feels… sixteen again. Angry and aching and so, so tired, and though he’s torn between punching and screaming or wanking himself into oblivion.

This isn’t something that’s cheap and easy- this is something that’s so much more. This is something that feels inevitable, like time has paused up until this point, and he feels, for the first time in years, something that’s absolutely beyond him. He feels like he ought to at least hesitate a bit, look a bit bashful.

And still he steps forward, never blinking, not once.

~

Childhood wasn’t kind to Harry.

He grew up a small child with unruly, dark hair and too big clothes and broken glasses, grew up with little to eat and less to read. Nonetheless, he had an incredibly active imagination, and that’s what kept him grounded.

Scenarios of dragons and knights and spies and fistfights and adventures and magic danced around his mind, all hours of every day. He never anticipated that they could have been real.

Then eleven came, and suddenly he was thrust into a world where all of those existed. It seemed false, but Harry settled quickly and well into this universe he never knew existed until then, even if it felt absolutely surreal.

He had the best- only- friends in the world, and they did things that only ever happened in the books. Ron, Hermione and himself raced against the odds, suck together like glue and ruled the world, always. Those adventures were the best things to ever happen to him- he was never afraid, not once, because he’d always dreamed about them.

The adventures grew and grew, and it never felt real. It was like one big game of cat and mouse, a game on the internet where no one actually existed, and Harry was content with that. He felt like a hero in a novel he had read many times.

Except then the war came around, and people started dying, and he died, and suddenly it was all too real. Everything came crashing down around his ears,and his mind reeled, and suddenly he wasn’t a hero because he had killed people, and yet people were treating him like he was, and he didn’t understand it because people were dead and in the ground and gone, and yet the living were rejoicing.

That sudden switch between fantasy and reality had left him bent double- his mind never really did adjust to that change- and he slowly started his descent into whatever sort of groove he’s embedded in these days.

He hates- would hate it, if he mustered up those emotions that seemingly shut down along with the force that was Voldemort- this, hates people pussyfooting around him as though he’s an angel that can do no wrong, even though he’s a murderer, even though their relatives are dead because he survived that fucking blow when he was a baby.

He never ever talks about it. He tried to, once, when it was somewhere between dusk and dawn. Tried to explain that all this could have been prevented if he just died like he was supposed to, that no one else could have died for or because of him. Hermione and Ron had stared at him- they're married now, with a little one on the way-, then Hermione had leaned across and patted his cheek.

 _Oh, Harry_ , she’d said sadly, with a little frown. _If not you, then who else?_

And that had shut all that down. Bye bye, talking and feelings. Hello, exclusion and isolation and being placed on a podium he didn’t fucking want to be on.

He’s tired of people dancing around him, of apologising to him when he’s the one who fucked up, when he’s the one who hurt somebody.

He just wants someone to fight back, even if he won’t admit it and didn’t necessarily realise it until maybe a moment ago, to prove he’s human and not some trophy, to hold him accountable for his actions. That’s all he’s ever wanted. But he doesn’t know if he’s ready, if he’s deserving, because that won’t take back all the people dead at his hand, will it?

And the only person who has ever pressed his buttons like that is twenty-five feet away from him, silver eyes flashing and unblinking, and he’s definitely not what Harry wanted for tonight. He’s a blaring, beautiful reminder that Harry is human, that maybe Harry does have feelings and he can address them someday, and he’s the only person in the world who understands even a fraction of what he is, and he’s not what Harry wanted for tonight but he’s what Harry’s needed and maybe, just maybe, fate is playing to that fact.

Harry’s torn between staying and running, between facing what he’s avoided for years and being the coward he is, the coward who lurks in shadows and stews in guilt and confusion and hurt and being completely, utterly, devastatingly alone and misunderstood, when Malfoy steps forward.

And the only thing Harry thinks, unconsciously, perhaps, is, “finally”.

~

Potter’s changed.

His jaw is more set. His shoulders are more full of tension.

His hair has grown. It’s curling at the base of his neck, perhaps from sweat but maybe just naturally, and is thick and curly. His nose is long, with a little curve in it and a snubbed tip, and his chin is decorated with stubble. His eyes are as shockingly green as they always were, though, and his glasses are square rather than round.

His clothes have filled out- Draco can see the ripple of muscles from here- and he’s even taller than he was after the war. His magic is familiar and huge, it takes up the whole room, and Draco is drawn to him like a magnet.

Potter is not cheap or easy or sleazy. He isn’t Draco’s type- or so he tries to tell himself- and he certainly isn’t going to give Draco what he wants.  
Draco wants to pretend there isn’t a force pulling him towards his past, and, evidently, present, wants to pretend that he’s moving on his own accord, but he can’t.

Potter is the closest thing Draco has had to forever, and he’s absolutely terrified because that nasty word hurts so badly that is stays under his skin for months at a time.

And suddenly, like the flip of a switch, he’s fuming.

How _dare_ Potter show up here, in one of Draco’s clubs? How _dare_ he stand there like that? How _dare_ he rub Draco up the wrong way, like he did all those years ago?

His skin prickles and his hands tingle. Oh, he’s _raging_.

And so his step changes, his purpose changes, and before he knows it he’s reached Potter, grabbed his hand, and is dragging him outside.

Potter follows.

~

Harry watched it all happen, watched the emotions dance across Malfoy’s face, and anticipated it.

He lets himself be brought outside this horrendous club, lets the door slam shut behind them and lets Malfoy drop his hand. He watches as Malfoy stalks around him, like a tiger, and lets himself be examined.

He sees the war flickering across Malfoy’s face, sees the shadows highlighting his cheekbones and sharpening his jawline, sees the brows furrow, and thinks: “yes”.

When Malfoy slams him against the wall, eyes wild and hair falling out of his braid, he lets him say “Fuck you, Potter”. He lets him shake him, lets him grab his shoulders and bang him against the wall, and watches as he does it all the while.

Years of guilt, of pain, of screaming at anyone, anyone please, to come and do exactly this, all come to a head, and he fucking _loves_ it.

He flips Malfoy around so he’s the one with his back to the cool stone, he lets Malfoy protest, and then he grabs that silver hair, yanks his neck back, and bites into that pale flesh.

Malfoy hisses and his hands fly up to Harry’s hair, and it’s pure heaven.

He shoves Harry off, and his pupils are dilated, and he pushes Harry again and again.

“Fuck you, Potter. It’s all your fault, you worthless scum. Everything is all your fault... I would be so fucking happy without you, you fucking imbecile. Fucking Boy Who Lived, my arse.”

He looks at Harry _just so_ , through heavy eyelids, and Harry’s fucked. The dam breaks as he takes in Draco’s bloody mouth, his unruly hair, his heaving chest and his wrinkled shirt, and he thinks, _yes_.

This is what he needs, a fight, a whole horrible mess that strips them both back to their raw instincts, the instincts that have been there since they were children.

To hurt, and to be hurt. It’s fucking _incredible_.

And then Malfoy’s sucking into Harry’s mouth, and Harry has never felt more alive in all his 25 years of living.

Hands yank at his hair, teeth clatter against his, and blood spills into his mouth. A tongue barges past his torn lips and he growls.

 _Yes_. It’s always been Malfoy, only ever been Malfoy who’s made him feel like this.

He slams Malfoy back into the wall and hoists him up by his hips. Malfoy moans into his mouth, a startling noise, and he drags his mouth away and moves down his neck.

“P-potter,” Malfoy’s voice is hoarse and high. Harry ignores him.

“Potter, you useless fucking prick, fucking stop it and take me home to your fucking shithole house right fucking now or so help me-”

And then they’re Disapparating, and Harry grins, for the first time in years, in that blur of space between one location and the next.

~

 _Potter’s house really is a shithole_ , Draco thinks, right before he’s dragged off to bed.

Teeth are on his neck before he even takes in the bedroom, and his hands are back in hair, and a groan settles in his chest.

Reality is so, so warped, and Draco loves it.

“Fuck you, Potter,” he whines, not for the first time. “Fuck. You.”

And then he’s being pushed down on the bed, and he’s so very angry but so very horny.

He starts talking shit again.

“Fucking Potty, with his shit fucking house and ugly fucking bed and-” his trousers get vanished and cold air sweeps across his bum. “- _ohhh fuck_ you’re a fucking pillock, you always have been a fucking pillock, how fucking dare you show up in my space when you’re the reason for everything that’s ever went wrong in my life-” a finger is pushed up his arse. “-hnnnngyesfuck fuck you, speccy bastard, I fucking hate you, I’ve always fucking-” another finger, and a hand in his hair. “-despi.. despise… _fuuuuuuuck me fuck me fuck me_ despised you _uuuuuu shit fuck me fuck me fuck_ me, Potter, you useless twa _aahhhhh_ …”

There’s a pressure at his hole and he stills. Potter squishes his head into the pillow and slams home in one push, and fucking hell does it hurt, but it’s so fucking perfect that Draco feels like he’s died or something.

And he moans and moans and moans.

“Fuck you _uuesssssPotterfuckmeharderdon’tfuckingSTOP_ you’re a fucking ponce and I fucking hate you and you ru- ruin- _FUCKRIGHTTHEREDON’TYOUDARESTOPYOUNASTYFUCKINGBASTARD_ ruined forever and I fucking ha _aaaaaahhhh_ hte you, _you dirty slag_ … _Harry please don’t stop, please don’t go, not now_...”

His voice trails off as he accepts the absolute bliss that’s enveloped him. It feels so fucking good, and it was always inevitable, and he wants to hate it so badly but he can’t, he just can’t.

~

Harry doesn’t know where his head is. He thinks he might have left it in the living room.

All those nasty thoughts and repressed feelings are gone, and he’s loving it. The heat inside of Malfoy is beyond otherworldly, and Harry wonders if this is how sex feels for everyone else.

Every single patch of his skin feels like it’s been lit on fire. He has never, ever felt anything like this when sleeping with someone, but he’s brought back to his school days- those days where he duelled Malfoy every day- and realises he’s felt like this before, only ever with Malfoy, and now he has him in his bed and he wants to laugh at it all.

It’s the first time he’s wanted to laugh in a long, long time. Malfoy’s saying everything he’s needed to hear for years, and it’s fucking incredible. He should feel guilty, should feel bad, but he’s ecstatic. He’s human, he’s a mortal, and all it took was Draco fucking Malfoy to show up at a Muggle gay club to remind him of that.

He’s driving it home now, his hand wrapped in silver blond hair and dick in a pale, pale arse. His skin is tingling all over, and he feels great.

He feels drunk and high and yet more sober than he has in his entire life. He’s no longer drowning. He’s broken the surface, finally, and it’s like he’s entered a whole other realm of life.

With a final grip of Malfoy’s hair, he releases. He hears a shout, and that vice tightens around his cock, and he knows Malfoy’s come as well.

Harry briefly wonders what he should do now. If he should start calling him Draco, if he should cuddle him, if he should cook them breakfast or something. For the first time in ages, he’s confused, and it’s so, so liberating to just be feeling again.

He feels _alive_ , in a way only Malfoy could make him feel. He feels human, feels raw. Feels like he’s seventeen again, like he’s on the brink of life and death and is all the while being stared down by a boy who’s the polar opposite of him and is the cause of all this anguish, deep down, and who says, I _know_ _you,_ _Potter_ , _and_ _you_ _know_ _me_ , with his unnerving gaze and biting tone.

Feels like he’s being seen. Being seen as a human. As someone only an old enemy can see him as, with no expectations for him.

And it’s everything he’s ever needed.

~

That was… marvellous.

It might not have been what Draco wanted, but it was what he needed. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

It’s always been Potter.

Always, only ever been Potter.

Draco doesn’t _do_ things like this. Tonight was supposed to be quick, supposed to be _easy_ , supposed to be _Muggle_. Not Potter, not a gateway into the past that doesn’t define him, a past that’s irrelevant these days.

Potter’s slumped beside him, asleep. He sleeps like a baby, curled up like a fetus, with his arms wrapped around himself. He looks frighteningly human, not at all like the most powerful wizard in the world, and it’s unsettling.

Draco wonders briefly what Potter wanted for tonight. He thinks that maybe Potter was the same as Draco, he wanted something quick and easy to make him forget everything. Make him forget what he is, and what he isn’t.

He’s almost tempted to touch Potter, to smooth his face with dainty fingertips, but he won’t.

He can’t.

They’re not kind, not caring, not with each other. Not since that day where Potter refused Draco’s handshake in first year. They’re rough, and undignified, and so completely natural and human yet so very feral when they’re with each other. They always have been.

They know each other, as much as Draco wants to ignore it. They know each other, know each other’s anger and pain and fury and hurt. They know each other at their lowest points, know what their tears look like. Know what they look like at their most stripped back, most raw.

Not even Pansy knows him like Potter knows him. Pansy has never stood across from him and stared him in the eye, refusing to break eye contact and wondering why he didn’t sell her soul to the devil and end it all quickly. Pansy has never flown with him, both of their hands outreached for something much more than just a Snitch. Pansy has never cut him wide open in a bathroom.

It’s all coming back to him now. Those years at school, those nightmarish days and nights and weeks and months. Those feelings that welled under his ribs for so very long, that hand in his gut twisting him every which way. That soul-crushing feeling that only Potter could ever give him, the feeling of hatred, of useless competition, of being so alive he felt it in his toes.

Potter has always been something different to Draco.

And, looking down at him, Draco knows he’s always been something different to Potter.

It’s not love. It can never be love, between the two of them. But there’s something and Draco’s not going to run tonight. Even though all of his nerves are fried, even though his hands are clammy and his heart is in his knees. He’s not going to run.

Draco is terrified of forever. Commitment is the boggart in his closet, a startling, ugly monster that rears its infinite head and whispers _forever_ through teeth that gleam like the stars in the night sky that Draco hasn’t looked at since he was a teenager who was burning from the inside out, but he thinks he’d perhaps like to see those stars again. Eternity is still a dirty word. It probably always will be.

But tonight isn’t forever. Even if he thinks he can see the foundations of a house beside the sea in the lines in Potter’s sleeping face, tonight isn’t forever.

Potter’s eyes open slightly, and his face shifts slightly. Into something faintly resembling a smile, possibly. He reaches out for Draco, just so.

Tonight isn’t about forever. Tomorrow might be, or next week, or maybe next month. Who knows, maybe tomorrow will be spent eating toast and talking, or throwing cutlery and shouting, or riding motorcycles; or perhaps tomorrow will spell Draco going back to Pansy and crying to her about it, only then to just chalk it all down as a one night stand when it’s something _so_ _much_ _more,_ and lifewill go back to the regular, _boring_ , Muggle way of life.

It’s all tomorrow’s problem.

And Draco sleeps.


End file.
